


In On the Secret

by Dream_tempo



Series: Kaleido's Kink Bingo [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Face-Sitting, Facials, Foot Jobs, Foot Massage, Foreskin Play, Fuckbuddies, Gratuitous Smut, Half-Sibling Incest, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Jock Straps, Locker Room, M/M, Now with even MORE detailed descriptions of cocks and balls, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, Uniform Kink, Voyeurism, and descriptions of genitalia, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/Dream_tempo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school locker rooms are hard-- especially when all of your teammates are preternaturally attractive and fit. </p><p>~OR~</p><p>The one in which Stiles is hung like a horse and doesn't know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaleidomusings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidomusings/gifts).



> As with all my ridiculous, filthy porn, I would use this space to profusely apologize to you all, except I'm really not all that sorry. In addition, I am shifting any and all blame to kaleidomusings for the foreseeable future because she's the one who made me a kink bingo card, thus releasing the tide of increasingly shameful smut about to come your way. :P 
> 
> This was all feverishly written in one sitting last night-- ending at five in the morning. If it starts to get a little delirious at the end, that is why. I wish I could say it was beta'd, but I scare all my editors away, so.... enjoy!

 

It’s a kind of unspoken, but irrefutable truth that when a large group of hormonal boys shares a locker room, shit can and will happen. But what goes down inside those hallowed, stained, ignoble walls, stays within those walls. It just saves a lot of pain and effort and long, uncomfortable talks with too many people. And really, what is one to say about literal pissing contests, group tips on manscaping, and the occasional rat tail wars?

Once you sign up to be a part of a high school sports team, you’re really signing away any rights you had to modesty, privacy, and a world ruled by logic of any kind. Scott had apparently known that from the get-go and was perfectly fine assuming the waiver. He took to the group nudity like a duck took to water, more than happy to bro-hug a guy (right hands clasped firmly between their chests, left coming around the back to slap twice on the opposite shoulder blade) while in the buff—effortlessly perfecting the hip-quarter-turn-to-avoid-unwanted-junk-contact maneuver.

Stiles, on the other hand, had been woefully uninformed, and wholly terrified, being of the changing in a bathroom stall persuasion since puberty. It wasn’t exactly that he was self-conscious of what he had—sure he wasn’t ripped, sure he didn’t have thick thatches of hair, sure he was pale and freckled, but he was pretty damn rockin’ in his own right—it was more that he wasn’t quite sure how he wanted it to fit all in with the others. Because even if it probably was pretty simple to commit those gestures to muscle memory, Stiles found out quite early on, that he didn’t want to.

Honestly, he kind of wanted to junk-touch every guy in there, maybe, occasionally, once in a dream, Scott too. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his palm flat and his touch perfunctory when giving congratulatory slaps on the ass. His gaze wouldn’t simply skim and skip across the miles of naked skin. And his dick sure as hell wasn’t gonna stay flaccid when another teammate was running his fingers down Stiles’ happy trail, feeling out just where and how much to shave! It was all just a fat, juicy, thick, throbbing, no.

Only thing was, he’d already made the team, made the commitment, made the room in his schedule and the argument to his dad that this would be a good thing for him. Boy, when he was wrong, he was _wrong._ The first few games had been played at home and it was easy enough to come from home, already changed and gearing to go—and then make his excuses and quick exits afterwards to dive into his jeep, push aside his jock strap, and fist himself to the remembered feel of a rival player tackling him from behind and grinding all up in it.

Away games were trickier—teammates wanting to go for food afterwards, carpooling being highly encouraged, no one finding concentrated levels of b.o. something worth tolerating, even for a night. Still, he manages it. There’s close calls of course, but Stiles is determined and crafty and more horny than you’ll ever know. It’s enough to fuel a guy to go to great lengths, always has been, probably always will be.

But a month into this cat and mouse game, Stiles meets his match. The road games. Crammed on a bus, shoved into a locker room, coupled in motel rooms. There’s no escape, and no matter how many times he tries to get out of it—how many colorful excuses and simulated substantiations—he still ends up sitting next to Isaac, changing in front of Jackson, and rooming with Scott. It’s easily the longest day of his life, and oddly enough, the most fulfilling.

* * *

 

Stiles thinks he’ll save himself, at least for a few hours, by sitting all the way in the back of the bus—where the seats are broken, the floors are covered in mystery liquids, and the exhaust from the tailpipe permeates through the cracks in the windows. Telling Scott that he spent the night dungeon crawling instead of sleeping, and that he needs a nice long nap, gets him out of any social obligations, and he heads straight for that extended row, tossing his backpack in the center and cramming up against the wall, preparing to ignore the chub already stretching his briefs. Danny just _had_ to wear a tanktop and board shorts on the bus ride—couldn’t chill in grungy sweats and flip flops like everyone else, no!

For the first hour or two it’s fine—mission going according to plan. Stiles keeps his earbuds jammed in, a book on deck, and a healthy supply of cold shower images at the ready (that time he’d hidden in the stalls after practice, thinking everyone was gone, only to walk in on Greenberg bent over Finstock’s knee, all too gleeful in his punishment). He gets lazy though, gets bored and starts convincing himself that he’s overreacting.

With half-open eyes watching the crowd of guys in front of him, Stiles lets his hand drift down his chest, underneath his sweatshirt to rub at his stomach, and then down to the front of his sweats to cup at his balls. With a breathy sigh he spreads his legs and sinks lower into the seat, thumb scratching just below his navel, teasing at the wiry hairs. He bites his lip, and is just about ready to give up the ghost and grope himself in earnest, when he hears someone clear their throat just to his left, and he jumps out of his seat, suddenly very much aware of how bad this looks.

Isaac is standing with a duffel slung over his shoulder, eyebrows inching up towards his hairline, self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Am I interrupting something? I can come back?” Stifling a laugh, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder and looks pointedly and the still-wide vee of Stiles’ legs.

“Ah! Uh, no—not at all. Nothing going on here.” Stile shakes his head violently and claps his legs shut, feeling his face grow beet red. Lying never really was his strong suit. If it’s even possible, Isaac’s eyebrows climb even higher and the amusement falls from his face, replaced by something almost curious. He wipes at his bottom lip with that hitched thumb and looks back over his shoulder, shifting his weight back and forth for a moment before tossing his stuff beside Stiles’ and sitting close enough that their thighs touch.

Stiles can’t help himself from staring at their point of contact, throat going dry and dick getting harder, curving up towards his stomach and tenting his pants. He clenches his hands together, white knuckled grip, and lays them over the bulge, eyes going wide as he swallows, hard. Feeling like his face just might melt off, he goes to stare out the window, place his cheek against the cool glass, but stops when Isaac’s fingers creep from his own knee onto Stiles’.

His breathing starts getting hard and without his permission, Stiles’ leg presses into the touch, rubbing against Isaac’s. Isaac’s eyes are bright and innocent and he catches Stiles’ gaze and he whispers, breathily. “I’m a little nervous too—could use some distraction… relief.” His fingers creep higher up Stiles’ thigh, applying more pressure.

All Stiles can do for a moment is stare back, dumbfounded, until he gets a little of his wits back, and nods furiously, cramming himself back into the corner—Isaac following into his space, so neither of them are in the line of sight of the open aisle. So utterly smooth and practiced and nonchalant that Stiles finds himself wondering if this isn’t his first time, Isaac keeps his head and shoulders level—gaze straight ahead—as he slips his own sweats down past the swell of his ass, but still above his knees, revealing a tight pair of grey boxers, sporting an elephant’s smiling face—a loose sleeve in the place of its trunk.

At any other time, Stiles would be busting his gut laughing, maybe even busting his bladder depending on the last time he’d went, but as that sleeve starts to fill, starts to raise up, he finds himself utterly grave. Throwing shifty glances towards the front, but unable to keep his eyes away from Isaac lazily stroking his own hip bones for long, Stiles mirrors the movement—infinitely less graceful, but ultimately just as successful—baring his own sky blue briefs with over-easy eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods on them, so old they have skid marks in the back from a less self-aware time.

Smack dab in the center of a stack of flapjacks a wet spot has started to form, and Isaac’s gaze is drawn to it instantly. Without any semblance of a preamble, Isaac reaches out to rub the pads of his fingers along it, caressing Stiles’ swollen cockhead through the thin material, causing embarrassing amounts of precum to bead and then soak into the fabric. He keeps his arm low, barely telegraphing any movement past his elbow, but rubs feverishly, his mouth hanging open and his breaths hot and wet.

Stiles lets his head fall back against the vinyl seat, his own jaw working to keep back the wanton moan that is trying to claw its way from his throat and his hips circling and pushing up into the pressure. Lolling his head to the side, eyes glued to the now-full elephant trunk, Stiles slides his own hand along Isaac’s sinfully sharp hipbones, caressing the hard spurs and scratching at the sensitive skin, pride swelling in his chest as the grey pillar twitches and jerks.

They tease each other for a while—enough to get flushed and wet and desperate—but eventually Isaac’s fingers begin to dig at the network of seams on Stiles’ crotch, searching for that little opening to push open. When they find it, they spread the fabric and usher it down, down, to the base of Stiles’ cock, cushioned by dark hairs. For just a brief second, Isaac loses all his careful composure—eyebrows drawing together, teeth pulling harshly at his lips, high whine escaping his throat—as he gazes almost reverently at Stiles’ erection. “ _Jesus,_ man. Lookit—oh.”

Stiles doesn’t have time to wonder over that reaction because the next instant Isaac licks his palm and closes it over Stiles’ shaft—firm and slick and sure. He twists his wrist and starts pumping up and down at a speed that leaves no space for thinking. Stiles takes a moment to enjoy it, thrusting weekly up into the sensation, but knows not to be selfish.

He lets his own hand slide beneath the waistband of Isaac’s boxers and pull his dick from its covering, overly pleased with the strawberry blonde pincurl pubes and soft pink button head. It’s notably smaller and thinner than his own, but feels amazing in his fist—hard and hot and slick. It’s difficult, at first, to find a way to move without making those tell-tale squelching noises, but he follows Isaac’s lead and grips onto the skin, working it along the shaft instead of letting his hand fly along it.

Stiles tries out all the tricks he knows, sweeping his thumb across the open slit, pinching and rolling the head between his fingers, pulling against the natural bend and then letting go. It’s enough to get Isaac to join him in the eager roll of their hips and appearance be damned—Stiles find himself switching to jack at Isaac with his left hand, while his right dives back into his boxers to clutch at his tightening balls. After that it only takes a few tugs and Isaac is tensing up, pressing himself hard into the seats as Stiles points his dick forward—ejaculation spattering against the seat in front of them.

He works Isaac through the aftershocks—gentler and slower, but not any less lewd—and finds himself not wanting to let go, even as his dick grows soft. But Isaac bats him away casually, compromising by leaving himself still untucked as he grabs back hold of Stiles, this time with both hands. Stiles spreads his legs as wide as he can manage, discreetly reaches beneath his sweatshirt to pinch at his nipples, and curls his toes when he comes, spilling all over Isaac’s fists and in-between his fingers.

He goes to apologize—eyes wide and heart thundering—but Isaac just sticks them in his mouth, cleaning them deftly and without pause. Wordlessly, they pull back up their sweats, try and catch their breath, knock knees and share a nervous smile. A few minutes later Isaac presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth—brief and moist and smelling of spunk.

The bus ride doesn’t seem all that long from there.

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t have the space in his head to worry about changing when they get there, and plays the best first half of his life. It doesn’t last long though when Isaac breezes by and gropes his ass on the field, fingers digging well into the cleft of his ass, and Stiles stumbles, collides headfirst with Jackson. He sprains his ankle and Jackson pulls his groin and the both of them are taken out right as they break for the half. During Finstock’s zealous, aspirationally motivating speech in the locker room Isaac mouths ‘Sorry!’ at him and shrugs his shoulders, looking absolutely anything but apologetic.

Jackson shoots daggers at him from the opposite side, and if looks could kill, Stiles would be stabbed a half dozen times and maybe even chopped into pieces. Everyone files out once the buzzer sounds, Scott clasping his shoulder as he goes, and leaves the two of them amongst the sticky tiles and dirty laundry. Jackson continues to stare, Stiles smiles as wide as he can manage, and the stalemate of the century begins. “We should probably get back into training gear—at least head out and cheer them on, y’know?”

Jackson stares. Feeling awkward the whole time, but unsure what else to do, Stiles undoes the laces on his cleats, peels away his socks and shin guards, stands and pulls his jersey up over his head. He stops undressing to put in his combination, open the locker and shove the sweat soaked pieces into a separate, zippered compartment of his duffel. Rolling his shoulders and nervously bouncing on his heels, he sneaks another look at Jackson—still glaring.

Trying not to feel like a peep show, Stiles wiggles his waistband past his hips and lets his shorts fall to the floor, stepping out of them, and bringing them up to his hands with his good foot—not wanting to bend over and let Jackson’s steely eyes meet his singular brown one. He tosses those in as well, and when Jackson still hasn’t moved, rolls his eyes and goes for broke, plucking his dank cup out the front of his jockstrap with pointed fingers and then sliding the undergarment off itself.

He hears a sharp intake of breath to his right, and when Stiles straightens back up, hanging free, Jackson is staring, but not at his face. For some reason, it takes Stiles a second to parcel it out, actually having to physically follow Jackson’s line of sight, but when he realizes his junk is being ogled at, he feels strangely… empowered. It’s a little bit because Jackson looks like he just swallowed his tongue, but mostly it’s because he does a little looking of his own and Jackson’s shorts are beginning to stir. “Stilinski—you—you’re—I—you’ve _got_ to be fucking kidding me.”

Stiles smirks, slow and saccharine, before stepping forward and bracing himself against Jackson’s spread knees, straddling the bench. “I already said I was sorry out on the field, but if there’s another way I could make it up to you…” He lets the sentence hang, and feels a thrill go up his spine when Jackson gulps, unconsciously spreads his legs wider, checks over his shoulder.

Taking that as a yes, Stiles starts massaging Jackson’s inner thigh with one hand, letting it trail up into his shorts and pinch at the muscle. The other pulls his cleats free, and on impulse, he lifts one to his nose—sniffs experimentally and feels his cock twitch when the ripe odor filters through his nostrils. Jackson groans, low and broken and Stiles grins at that, throws the shoe over his shoulder, and moves both hands down to massage his still socked feet. His thumbs press at the arches, his fingers work at the ankles, and he presses his nose to the splayed toes, feeling dirty and delighted as he feels his cock wet at the scent.

Jackson’s fully hard now, leaning back against the bench and holding on for dear life as Stiles guides his foot between his legs, brings it to rest, nestled in his crotch, erection pressed all the way from heel to toe—cockhead peeking over the top. Jackson puts varying levels of pressure against it, rubbing and clenching around it, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as he pulls the other boy’s shorts down, nosing at the hair along his thighs and sucking raspberries into the soft skin.

Feeling raunchy and wrong and so, so right, Stiles just keeps going and buries his face between Jackson’s legs, groaning wide and open mouthed at the heady musk—so thick he can taste it along the back of his tongue. He doesn’t half to pull Jackson’s jockstrap very far before he can nip at his taint, reveling in the way it makes Jackson shudder and squirm and whine. He gets lost in the scent and the taste and lets his deft fingers pull out the unforgiving cup, freeing Jackson’s dick to burst from the small pocket of ribbed, yellowed fabric and out into the open air.

It’s longer than Isaac’s, but not really thicker and certainly not as pretty. The head is a darker color—not quite red, but not pink either—and has a swooping indent on the top—flare exaggerated in the middle and almost non-existent on the sides. It has thin veins that run along its length and instead of running straight like a rod, it curves towards his belly, like Stiles’. He’s hesitant to say that it’s gorgeous, but delectable could certainly be used and Stiles finally finds himself coming up for air, only so he can go down on it. One of his hands curls around Jackson’s hips and comes to squeeze at his comically, but endearingly small ass and the other runs all the way up his stomach to his chest and down again, needing to rub against all that smooth skin.

Jackson waxes—Stiles had heard all too much about it already—except for his legs and his pubes, which he trims himself, into a neat, short plateau that mirrors the line of his muscles. It looks clean and put together, and Stiles appreciates the way his stomach feels so tender beneath his hands, but he kind of wishes there was something to nuzzle into on his way down, and the inhumanly round balls weird him out.

Still, with the way Jackson is moaning his name, the way his foot is pressing against his cock, the way his sweat sheened body smells, the way his cock tastes and feels against Stiles’ tongue, there’s not much room for complaining. Spit gathers at the corners of Stiles’ mouth and soon enough it starts to get loud and sloppy as he bobs up and down, immeasurably turned on by the way Jackson’s body vibrates when he moans. Jackson is close—he can tell by the way his ass cheeks alternately quiver and clench on each downward slide.

It works for him, as Stiles ruts against the scratchy-soft material of his sock and hollows out his cheeks. “Fuck, ya. Just like that!” Jackson practically mewls and thrusts against the wet pocket of Stiles’ cheek, laying down against the faux wood so he can finger at Stiles’ cheek and throat with one hand, and rub at his taint with the other. Thinking that, if he’s gonna get this down and dirty, he may as well do it right, Stiles pulls off of Jackson to lick a thick stripe all the way up his shaft and linger at the tip, mouth wide as he furiously jacks at the spit saturated skin.

Moving to complain, but changing his mind when he saw what Stiles was doing Jackson kicks at Stiles’ crotch and lets himself go completely. “Always knew you wanted me Stilinski, could see you thirsting after my cock at the urinals, checking out my ass at practices. Got me so damn horny I thought my balls were gonna burst. If I woulda known you wanted it this bad, I’d have let you on your knees years ago, let you suck my cum through my shorts with those pretty lips of yours.” Stiles feels offended and hideously turned on at the same time—about on par with the rest of this frenemy fuck—and redoubles his efforts.

“Woulda loved that, wouldn’t you? Probably stolen one of my cups—sniffed at it while you touched yourself in the stalls, come in it and put it back.” Jackson’s getting himself more and more riled up, ass lifting clean off the bench as his words grow faster and closer together. “Does it get you hot, thinking about our cocks touching—your cum in my pubes and my sweat in your nose?”

Stiles can’t help himself, needs to finally fucking come, needs Jackson to so he can feel that hot fluid shoot down his throat and drip down his lips and cling to his eyelashes. As much as he wants to say that Jackson was the only one making embarrassing confessions, Stiles ends up shouting, “Fuck, yes! Wanted your stupid, hot dick since we were twelve.” Jackson makes a sound like he’s dying when he comes, and splatters mostly down Stiles’ throat, salty and only a little bitter.

Stiles shoots all over the sole of his foot and up onto his shin—some of it missing the sock and sticking in Jackson’s leg hair. When it’s all over, they don’t share cum-scented kisses and gentle smiles, like he and Isaac did, but a silent shower, phone numbers and promises of booty calls, and one cum soaked sock.

Stiles thinks he just got himself a fuckbuddy.

* * *

 

After their win, the team goes out for pizza and milkshakes and a little well-earned contraband booze. The coach keeps an eye on them and no one gets more than tipsy, but both Isaac and Jackson cop a feel while they have the excuse and Stiles feels a little like the king of the world. Late, after getting kicked out of the pool for being too loud and ushered into their rooms, Scott heads into the bathroom for a shower and Stiles splays out on the bed, buzzed and full and _happy._

He dozes off for a bit and dreams of drilling Jackson’s ass while Isaac watches, rubbing one out. It’s a nice enough dream that he ignores the itch of his consciousness—the far-away echo of someone calling his name. He’s just about to turn Jackson around, get him on his hands and knees and offer Isaac a spit roast, when someone shakes his shoulder and his eyes fly wide open.

Scott is standing over him—hair dripping, steam curling off his skin, towel clutched tight to his waist. “I get the feeling you’re a little hard up?” There’s a laugh in his voice and he’s smiling goofily, eyes drifting from Stiles face, down to where he’s fondling himself through his pants. Stiles blanches and clenches his legs, not quite mortified (being best friends through puberty means sometimes you see things, and sometimes, when you fall asleep on the same couch at sleep-overs, you feel things, digging into your back in the mornings, and those you just have to brush off and move forward from) but maybe a little ashamed.

How in the hell can he still be gunning for a go after this morning and afternoon? Stiles slowly drags his hand out from between his legs and shrugs, trying not to let his odd nerves come through. Usually he’s the first one to make causal comments about spanking the monkey—it would be weird if he was awkward about it now. “What can I say—you’re never more aware of your penis than when you’re trying to ignore it—mainly when you’re in stranger’s beds and know you’re not supposed to masturbate, but suddenly you’ve never wanted anything more.”

Scott just smiles, shoulders shaking with a laugh, while he looks at the floor a moment before meeting Stiles’ eyes again and getting shy. “Me too, actually.” Scott moves his wrist from where it’s been hovering in front of his groin, and Stiles can see that he’s actually hard too—poking at the towel only just clinging to his waist. “When I came out of the room you were making all these noises, and touching yourself, and…” Scott twists his lips before clutching at his elbow, biting his lip, and slowly, slowly letting his towel slip out of his hands.

His dick is shorter than Isaac’s, but the thickest one Stiles has ever seen, and bends aggressively to the left. The perfect mushroom head is a dusky tan that suits his skin, and though he talks the talk, Scott has clearly never walked the walk—his pubes wild and untouched. His balls hang low, low and uneven and make Stiles’ mouth water. Scott takes slow steps forward, keeping eye contact as he crawls onto the bed and over Stiles—eyes dark and hungry. “Do you remember, in ninth grade, when we found our first porno in the dumpster behind the grocery store?” Stiles nods, throat clicking as Scott unbuttons his jeans and drags his zipper down, tooth by tooth. “We slept over at your house—a night when we knew your dad would be working the late shift—and put it on the big screen in the living room. The picture skipped and they were totally faking it, but we both got boners and ended up staring at each other’s laps more than the movie.”

Stiles nods and licks his lips, moaning lowly when Scott gets him naked, pushes him up the bed, grabs his thighs and ushers his legs to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t remember which one of us moved first, but we took off our pants and touched ourselves through our underwear. Yours were tighty whitey’s and mine were Power Rangers I hadn’t gotten rid of yet.” Scott slots their groins together and starts to grind, letting their dicks bump and slide as their balls mash and his thighs part Stiles’ ass cheeks.

“We started out on opposite ends of the couch, but slowly moved closer and closer until we were sitting together in the middle. You stared at me when I put my hand beneath my waistband, but hurried and looked away every time I caught you. You were so nervous I thought you were going to hyperventilate, so I just went first and pulled my dick out. It was just the head, just above the elastic band, but I remember your eyes got real big and you stopped touching yourself to watch.” Scott skims his hands down Stiles’ thighs and along his hips and up his ribs to brace against the bed—changing the angle so when he thrusts again, this time he slides between Stiles’ ass cheeks, catching on his rim.

They’re both breathing hard now, panting against each other’s skin and sweating just a little. Stiles reaches to tangle one hand in Scott’s hair and uses the other to play with Scott’s balls, pulling at the loose skin and rolling the testicles between his fingers. Scott has to stop his narrative for a moment, groaning and closing his eyes as he works at Stiles’ hairy crevasse—the crook of his cock and the ease of his pressure enough to keep it from doing anything but glancing, even as precum starts to build up and ease the way.

“I licked the tip of my fingers and rubbed at the edges and slit, which made me leak like crazy. Most of it was pre, but I think some of it was piss and it gathered in my belly button and started to spill over. I wasn’t doing enough to make me orgasm, but that was because I liked the way you were watching me and didn’t want you to stop. It made me feel like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have and that made my balls tight and I just wanted to see you too.” Scott lifts one of his hands to caress Stiles’ face, fingers starting at his temple and dragging all the way down to his chin, but before he can pull back, Stiles jerks forward, catching two of them with his teeth and suckling them into his mouth.

Scott makes a noise like the air just got kicked out of him and starts bearing down with purpose, hips snapping and balls making an obscene slapping noise as they smack against Stiles’ ass. “But then you reached over and dipped your hands in it and the second you touched my stomach it was too much. I came all over myself and you blushed all over because you didn’t even have to touch yourself, but you creamed your shorts right after I did.”

Scott’s starting to get a far-off look in his eyes and Stiles reaches with one hand to start fisting himself, setting a break neck pace, trying to catch up with Scott, whose hips are stuttering as the tip of his dick keeps finding purchase against Stiles’ rectum, catching on the muscle and stretching it before springing away. “We felt real guilty afterwards and hid the tape under your bed, along with our soiled underwear. You stared at me while we dressed, but tried to keep a hand over yourself and I wanted to see—“ Stiles can’t take any more of their frotting, any more of Scott’s confused, pained look, any more of this story, remembering how he felt and why. He puts a hand on Scott’s stomach, just like before, and scratches his nails along the rippling muscle, catching along the pliant rim of his belly button.

Scott groans, wounded and loud and guttural and comes all down Stiles’ ass crack and the small of his back, dick pulsing violent and shooting thick, long spurts—seven, eight times. When Scott finally shudders and collapses, mouthing at Stiles’ neck, Stiles comes between them, semen squelching in the limited space between their skin as he goes limp, boneless. They laid in the wet spot far longer than was probably appropriate—trading kisses and gropes and jokes. But eventually they get up and wipe themselves off as best they can with the already soiled sheets before moving to the other, untouched bed.

They’re just starting to drift off, Stiles spooning Scott from behind, when Scott perks back up, squirming to turn his head and look Stiles in the eye. “Why didn’t you let me see? I mean, I kinda get that it was weird and embarrassing, but I came all over your hand—showing me your penis didn’t seem like that big a deal after that.” Stiles feels himself heat up again, but this time not in a pleasant way, and for a long while he just stays quiet.

But Scott doesn’t look to be drifting off any time soon, and considering they just became Extra Special Best Friends, he doesn’t really think he can lie to Scott. He shrugs minutely, tracing Scott’s chest and playing with a nipple, trying to figure out how he can say this without sounding like the stupidest kind of douche. “When I saw yours it was so… cool? Not cool, but like—I want to say pretty, but that’s not right.” Scott quirks his lips, but doesn’t laugh, doesn’t try and interrupt him or patronize him, just lets him take his time to speak.

“It just—it suited you and it was… manly. You already had tons of hair down there and it was thick and when you came there was so much of it.” Stiles lets his hand drift to idly finger through those pubes, but he keeps his touch relaxed. “I didn’t know then that Stilinski’s were late bloomers and I was still small and pretty bare and… I just felt stupid.” Scott stretches up and kisses him, just a little tongue, and then burrows in against his shoulder.

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but I guess delayed gratification really is a thing.” Scott’s smile is playful again and he bites his lip, looking up through his lashes.

“I—what?” Stiles pulls away from him a little, completely lost and feeling like he’s out of the loop. It’s not something he feels a lot, especially around Scott, and he really, _really_ doesn’t like it.

Scott’s face goes completely blank for a second before he busts out laughing—gasping for air, clutching his stomach, wiping away tears and everything. “Dude! I don’t know how you haven’t noticed, but you’re _seriously hung._ Like, biggest I’ve ever seen, hung and I accidentally walked in on Derek showering while he was home over the holiday break.”

Stiles lets that information slowly sink in—honestly believe for a second that Scott has to be shitting him. Stiles—Stiles Stilinski—as in him, had a big dick. Wait, no—not just a big dick, the biggest Scott has ever seen, including a whole high school locker room and a half-brother that was a sophomore in college. That—“Hold on…. so let me get two things straight.” Scott’s still fighting to compose himself, but he nods from underneath Stiles’ armpit, face radiating with glee. “One—I have a seriously big dick—“ Scott’s eyes go dark again and he bites his lip, squirming against Stiles, nodding. “And two—Derek’s got a seriously big dick.

Stiles voice turns contemplative at the last bit and when Scott catches on, he scrunches his nose and tries to worm away. “Whyyy? Why did you have to go and ruin that?”

“I’m not hearing a no—in fact, what I heard is that you thought Derek had some mutant sized genitalia _until_ you saw mine. You gotta tell me man, it’s part of the Extra Special Best Friends code. I’m writing it in my head as we speak—page nine, subsection three—cute curly Q dicked younger brothers must diverge all pertinent information about their older brother’s glorious cock, if they are in possession of such knowledge.”

“Oh my _god._ You’re the actual worst! Why did I do this to myself?” Scott pushes Stiles away half-heartedly as they wrestle and get tangled in the sheets.

“Okay, okay—just one, _very_ important question. Just one. Is he cut or uncut?”

“Stiles!”

“You can end it all if you just answer.”

“….”

“You know you want to.”

“Uncut.”

“I knew it! Oh Jesus, that’s sexy as fuck.”

“I’m going away forever now.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after the overwhelming response to my posed prompt at the end of the last piece, I decided that I just had to add a sequel! I know it took me absolutely forever, but in my defense, I scrapped and rewrote this like three times. I had such a hard time getting the tone right and I was really nervous about writing a next chapter when I had nothing planned at the beginning. 
> 
> Anyways! Thank you all so much for encouraging me and I hope what comes was worth all the trouble and the wait.

As it turns out, there’s a lot of great things about open relationships. Not that piping hot, surprisingly kinky sex isn’t a reward all on its own, but there’s a lot of unanticipated bonuses that happen to go with it. Stiles is only a senior in high school, and despite what all the broody, sexy, melodramatic tv shows would have you believe, he still has no idea what it means to really and truly love someone. At least in the romantic way.

While he couldn’t imagine Scott not being in his life, and while he has very strong feelings about the two other boys currently spending naked sweaty time with him on a regular basis, none of that is love, not in the way he imagines it to be. Maybe he’s just got this naïve, unrealistic idea of it in his head, but Stiles is pretty sure that there’s meant to be more.

More than playing video games, stealing food, and never having to call Safety with Scott. More than using Isaac as his own personal What Not to Wear monkey, professor in hipster coffee flavors, and partner in the trials of two staunch bottoms trying to have sex with each other. More even than practicing drills with Jackson in the afternoons, getting drunk at his house after, and then having hate sex all over each other that probably breaks a few laws or two—maybe even a couple commandments.

Which is _okay,_ because he’s eighteen freaking years old, and Stiles really doesn’t think that he has to have his life together right now. Knowing that Isaac asks a little too often about Scott, and that he gets really hot and bothered when Stiles talk about getting it on with him, actually gets him a little excited about what could happen there. Having Jackson call him a fairy right after he lets Stiles slip cum coated fingers between his lips, and then go on and on about just how different the approaches are for eating ass and eating snatch, relieves a knot of tension from Stiles’ shoulders when they cuddle for a little too long.

Right now, he’s kind of a free agent, and it’s working for him. Stiles gets to find out things about himself, dank sort of things, in a pretty safe environment that he can step away from any time he wants—no harm, no foul. For one? He’s got a big-ass dick, and even if that’s no substitution for technique, it certainly gets him in the door, and gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “speak softly and carry a big stick.”

Once Scott pointed it out, Stiles started to notice the way Isaac’s eyes are glued to it while he fingers himself—how the other boy’s pupils dilate and shine and his eyebrows pinch together in this almost hurt expression when Stiles strokes himself with both hands. He’s noticed just how eager Jackson is to get something, anything, wrapped around it—feet, hands, lips. The way he breathes heavy and fucking _milks_ the shaft, mouth parted and wet when Stiles comes. And he’s more than aware of the reverence with which Scott handles it, like it’s something to worship. Stiles swears he’s heard him whisper prayers, lips brushing across the head, as his fingers caress the shaft.

It’s his own little miracle, and it’s opened the door on so many new things for Stiles. He’s been free to discover that he’s kind of a kinky bastard. For all the things being hung should imply about his sexual appetite, Stiles actually finds that he kind of likes being _used._ He likes how, with Isaac, they’re not so much feeding off each other as helping one another out. Mutual handjobs, shared porn collections, his very first double-ended dildo. They’re not into each other per say, but have the same goals and interests and could use a ‘helping hand’. They’re each other’s means to an end, and they’re not afraid to direct and criticize and explore.

With Jackson, _oh god_ , with Jackson. They kind of take turns being each other’s bitch, whichever way the wind happens to blow. Usually it’s on whoever breaks down first, who makes the call and admits—low and reluctant—that they could use a little oomph to their day. That’s the one that grovels—the one whose face is sat on, neck is bit on, hair is come on. They’re mean and unforgiving and unrelenting, and by the end, so worn out that it usually hurts a little to walk.

With Scott he never feels so much as a tool, even if, in the end, he really is. Scott only ever gets up on him when he’s bored or lonely or angry. Stiles makes him feel better, like a best friend should, but he makes him feel better with bared throat and spread legs and hot mouth, like only Extra Special best friends do. In any case, it lets him know that he likes to please, that what gets him off, is being serviceable to others.

There’s little things too—things like happy trails and low hangers and a pretty healthy dose of man stink. But those all seem secondary—things that can be negotiated as long as his big buttons get hit. In the end, that’s probably what gets him here, heart hammering in his chest as Derek lets his fingers disappear behind Stiles’ lips, and Scott closes the door with a quiet click.

* * *

 

It had started out innocently enough, Stiles swears. He never means for these kinds of things to happen—they just keeping coming from out of nowhere. Sit in the back of a bus? Orgasms. Trip over a teammate, twist his ankle? Orgasms. Get buzzed and have some overly friendly dreams? Orgasms. Not that he’s complaining, it’s just that, he’d like to have it on the record that he’s not actively pursuing a slightly slutty, mildly twisted love-life. Shit happens and Stiles is really just along for the ride.

He’s had a crush on Derek for years. Everybody and their goddamned dog knows that—even, unfortunately, Derek. They all do their best to ignore it, especially Scott, who wrinkles his nose and gives disapproving head shakes, and here lately, theatrically gags when he catches them flirting. The flirting thing is new and Stiles is an absolutely avid advocate. He’s not exactly sure when the accidental innuendos stopped being met with embarrassed coughs and hasty exits, and instead warranted wide smirks, raised eyebrows and an upped ante retort, but everybody and their goddamned dog has noticed _that_ too.

Melissa gives her oldest son some serious side eyes every time it happens, and Stiles’ dad has a remarkable, supposedly coincidental, ability to remember other places the both of them need to be every time it starts to get a little more than teasing. The remarkable thing about it, is that it never takes much. They’ll be bickering over the acceptable additives to ramen (hot sauce is a-okay, but an egg? Seriously—who does that?), the best superhero (Batman is badass but can totally go suck that aforementioned egg because no one beats the Scarlet Witch—no one), or even who gets the last snickerdoodle (Derek only wins because he doesn’t get them while he’s away on campus and totally not because he bites his bottom lip with those ridiculous buck teeth and asks, ‘ _please’_ with a soft, almost sexual whine) and suddenly they’ll be five inches apart and staring into each other’s eyes and breathing maybe just a little heavily.

Thing is, it never goes past that. Derek is hot and smart and hot and older and _hot._ Stiles doesn’t really have a lot to offer—at least nothing that can be offered up without getting naked—and he knows it. They can flirt and play sexual chicken while Derek is around because they both know nothing is going to come of it. Derek’s probably got a whole harem of boys and girls back at campus, just waiting to worship at his altar-ed boudoir, and Stiles just can’t compete. So they blush and brush hands and give slow once-overs and then back off before it gets anywhere.

No matter that they’ve known each other for years. No matter that Stiles gets most flustered when he makes Derek laugh. No matter that Derek holds his hand when he visits his mother’s grave. There’s a disparity between them that Stiles doesn’t think he can make up, no matter the chemistry. It makes him sad sometimes, but then, that’s what Isaac and Jackson and Scott are for.

Every time he’s consumed with images of Derek and some Medieval Literature major with smoky eyes and a sweet streak getting cozy in the back of a bar, he remembers that he’s just a snot nosed kid who tags along and annoys his best friend’s brother. Then he calls up Jackson, gets wasted, and bends the other boy over his knee. It’s not perfect, but it works well enough, he supposes.

* * *

 

It comes to a head a month into Derek’s summer break. He, Scott, and Stiles are killing time until the next showing of Galaxy Quest—half-heartedly playing Mario Kart in the living room—when Derek gets the call. Stiles doesn’t get to see the name or the face on his phone, he hadn’t been paying attention until he heard the smarmy, “He- _llo_.” spill from Derek’s lips as a stupid smile broke across his face—the kind Stiles had only ever seen when he was trying to impress someone— and he abandoned his first place position to take the conversation into the kitchen.

It makes Stiles’ stomach drop and his mouth taste like bile and suddenly he’s not so interested in any of the plans they’ve made. The very idea of greasy popcorn makes his insides turn and he tosses his controller aside, heading up the stairs without looking back, and trusting Scott to follow. He stops in the bathroom for a minute—splashing cold water across his face and taking a long beat to convince himself to laugh it off. It wasn’t like he didn’t know it was a lost cause, from the start, right?

When Stiles slinks into Scott’s room, he’s waiting on the bed, a soft look on his face and plenty of open space beside him. “Can we please just _not_ to the whole Plenty-of-Prettier-Fish-in-the-Sea-Speech thing and move straight onto the consoling sex?” Scott blinks a half-dozen times in quick succession before laughing and nodding his head. Stiles knows they’ll be taking about it later, but for the moment he just pulls the front of his shirt behind his head, hem bunching up in his armpits, and collapses to his knees, rubbing his cheeks along Scott’s thighs.

It’s probably not the healthiest way to deal with things, but Stiles never did claim to be of sound mind and body, so he just breathes hotly against Scott’s swelling crotch and gropes himself through the basketball shorts he’d thrown on earlier. It doesn’t take long before he’s making obscene sounds around a mouthful of cock and as he forces himself down until the head is punching at the back of his throat—his eyes watering and his lips stretching until they almost split—he feels in control. Whenever he finds himself here, Stiles feels confident and sexy and significant.

He’s not that fidgety, awkward, long-limbed boy that everyone loving laughs at. Stiles never would have imagined it, but it turns out that he’s most in his element when he’s having sex. He’s _good_ at it. He may not be the most attractive at first, or even once clothes are off, but he’s clever and adventurous and apparently very, very good with his mouth and his hands. It’s the first thing in his life that ever came naturally, and he revels in it.

Reducing other boys to this gives him a power high that he’s never experienced before—one that he never thought he’d be the kind of person to chase, but he’s not even ashamed when he does. Jackson may be richer, better looking, more athletic. Isaac may be mysterious and perfectly acidic and a little dangerous. Scott is definitely nicer and more charming and _good._

But all of them, always, end up pleading for this, whining his name and helplessly grasping at his skin. Stiles isn’t afraid to admit that he loves making them sweat and shake. He gets the most delicious thrill running down his spine watching their muscles twitch, their chests heave, their eyes screw shut and mouths hang open. He smoothly and methodically takes them apart, fucking milks the cum right out of them, and gets off doing it. There’re probably some terrible implications that come with such an approach to sex, but it’s what he’s got right now, and it’s enough.

Scott is shaking like a leaf above him, biting at his lips and trying his damnedest not to fuck into Stiles’ mouth. One of his hands is roaming through Stiles’ hair over and over, while the other supports his weight against the bed. Stiles knows he’s going to look absolutely wrecked after this—swollen lips and disheveled hair and the pungent tang of cum wafting off his tongue—and a twisted part of him loves the idea of Derek seeing it, knowing that Stiles was just up here, sucking his younger brother’s brains out through his cock.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect, because just as Scott’s balls start to draw up and his moans turn to whines, Stiles catches the sound of Derek calling after them downstairs. He moves to pull off, to wipe at his mouth and scurry to the bathroom, but Derek’s smarmy fucking grin from minutes before flashes in his mind and instead he just starts redoubling his efforts. He lets it get wetter than usual, spit dribbling down his chin, choking on Scott as he makes every criminal noise in the book.

Scott doesn’t seem to have heard anything, too caught up in the way Stiles is scratching at his stomach, their unspoken sign that it’s time to let go. Stiles can hear Derek on the stairs just as Scott lets out the first low, unmistakable moan, and by the time the third pulse of cum is hitting the back of his throat, Derek is pushing the door open—the hinges creaking horrifically.

Scott instantly panics, pulling out and falling all over himself to roll behind the bed, pulling his shorts up to cover himself. Stiles turns slowly though, sniffs loudly and licks at his chin as he gets to his feet. Derek is frozen in the doorway—eyes huge and mouth open. Stiles wishes his could find those buck teeth oafish, just this once, but he can’t and so pulls his shirt from behind his head to wipe at his face and give him the excuse to break eye contact.

“D-Derek, I—“ Scott is still hesitantly positioned behind the bed, hand held out like he thinks this might all turn into a horror/thriller at any second. Derek doesn’t look at him, though. His hand is still clenched on the doorknob and his breathing seems shallow as he swallows heavily, nose wrinkling at the smell hanging in the air.

It should feel good. It should feel really _fucking_ good to see Derek being the one laid low, for once, but Stiles just feels like he hit a kid or something. His eyes are stinging and his vision is starting to blur and even though he’s not embarrassed his face feels hot and he knows that it’s red. “I-uh… I just remembered that my dad’s getting off early tonight so if it’s alright I think I’ll get a raincheck for today and just—“ The rest of the lie sticks in his throat with a click, so he gestures out the door with a half-hearted click of his tongue.

No one says anything in reply, Scott looking something like mad and Derek looking… at the floor. Wiping at his eyes, he sweeps past him on the way out, knocking their shoulders painfully and stumbling down the steps with a sudden need to be _anywhere but here_ making his nerves buzz. He forgets his Jeep in the driveway and just takes off running, any direction will do.

* * *

 

He doesn’t see either of them for over a week. Stiles doesn’t walk back to pick up his car and Scott doesn’t call. He thinks about calling Isaac up, or maybe Jackson. Maybe both. But anytime he starts down that road, he remembers that that’s what got him here in the first place and then lays down with a sore stomach for the rest of the afternoon.

His dad shoots him looks over dinner that somehow manage to seem both concerned and disappointed and Stiles just knows that he’s been talking to Melissa. He’s heard that Derek went to stay with a friend downtown for a while—up and took off the day after catching Stiles with Scott. He tries not to feel guilty about it, but usually ends up mindlessly destroying a sleeve of Oreo’s whenever the topic comes up.

Honestly, Stiles plans to just ignore it all until the problem goes away, or at least until he graduates and leaves forever and loses his friends’ and family’s respect and probably becomes a drunkard and/or prostitute. It just seems like the proper course of action. Some might say he mopes. Romantics might say he wallows. Stiles prefers to call it checking out. Just a little mental health day… or seven.

Of course that means Melissa decides, just out of the blue, to throw a barbeque during the weekend—a barbeque that his dad has been strongly hinting will be mandatory attendance. Stiles has no doubt that the both of them are going to be there, and wishes that he could even begin to emulate composure. As it stands, he ends up slinking into their backyard that evening with a crookedly buttoned shirt, shaking hands, and lips that have been chewed until they bled.

Before he can even begin to think of finding a proper place to hide, someone’s at his shoulder and pulling him through the sliding glass doors. All the lights are off inside, probably to discourage guests from snooping, and Stiles is so startled that it takes him a minute to get his surroundings, try and parcel out who’s bodily dragging him along to another room.

Once they’re through the doorway though he turns to shout, only to find Scott sitting cross-legged on the bed and Derek bodily blocking his exit. Stiles swallows heavily, feeling like he’s in deeper shit than he’s ever been. He’d never thought Scott would be the type, but this felt very much like he was about to get his ass whooped in order for everyone to be on even terms again. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that he’s okay with that, even though he’s done nothing wrong, and turns to tell Scott so when Derek grabs him by the elbow again.

“Jesus, wait! I just have one thing to say.” He brings his hands up to cover his face, but Derek’s already shoving him up against the wall, wrapping his hands around Stiles’ jaw and oh, shit is he about to have his neck snapped? He shuts his eyes and waits until Derek’s body is crushing him and then… then—Derek’s kissing him. _Derek Hale_ is shoving his knee between Stiles’ thighs and his tongue between Stiles’ lips and making noises like he’s dying and Stiles? Stiles just melts.

He doesn’t have time to register any of the sensations before Derek pulls away— a thin string of saliva still connecting their mouths and his cool green eyes get crossed trying to stare at it. Stiles feels about ready to collapse to the ground—confused and flustered and so, _so_ turned on his legs can’t possibly support him. “Wha—what’s happening?” This has to be a dream. This has to be some bizarre fever dream because Derek’s fingers are running along the planes of his hips and Scott’s eyes are zeroed in on the bare skin with a hungry sort of look he’s never seen.

Stiles can believe that some seriously nasty shit happens outside of pornos, but a mildly incestuous threesome? That’s not what’s going down here. It can’t be. Derek looks over his shoulder and jerks his chin from Scott to the door with wide eyes. So, phew. That’s totally not what’s going on here. This was just Derek’s weird way of getting Stiles to see Scott was okay with this, right? Derek lifts a hand to brush at Stiles’ lips, thumb pressing past the seam and inside to tease at his tongue and just to the side, he hears the latch on the door click… but Scott’s still on this side.

Stiles’ heart immediately sets to racing, feeling like it’s going to just pound right out of his chest and he feels kind of sick, but not in a way that’s necessarily bad. He swallows heavily as his eyes flick back and forth between the two brothers and Derek starts to walk him back towards the bed, Scott following lethargically behind. “We… had a talk.” Derek’s eyes skirt all up and down Stiles’ body, gathering heat, and a small smirk pulls at his lips when they hit the foot of the mattress.

Scott comes round the side and runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, fond and gentle. “Derek was really pissed and hurt—and I was too because I know you knew he was coming, I saw how guilty you looked.” Stiles feels his mouth go dry and still feels like he can’t get an accurate read on what’s happening here. Deciding that his ability to pick up on cues and just go with whatever came at him was what had been consistently getting him out of these situations okay, Stiles fought to keep his mouth shut and his body loose, waiting until he knew how to react.

Derek looks away from him for the first time, eyes fluttering to the floor as the tips of his ears glow red. “Scott’s known I’ve had feelings for you ever since I was fourteen and I couldn’t believe he’d do that to me, not when—“ Stiles’ breath catches high in his chest and he winces at the uncomfortableness. This really, really has to be him tripping balls on too many meds, coupled with five hour energy and a shit-ton of processed foods, because there’s no way in hell that information is real.

Before Stiles can even begin to think of answering, Scott rushes back in, the two of them talking in this stuttered tandem like they used to all the time when they were younger. “But I told him it wasn’t like that, I _had_ to let him know that we were just fooling around, as friends.” Scott smiles reassuringly and with this sparkling hope in his eyes— like he’s laying down the evidence for just how awesome a friend he really is— that almost sets Stiles to a hysterical fit of laughter.

Derek bites his lip and Stiles feels himself quivering at it, even as he’s feeling his psyche tear in two. “We decided, maybe just for now—while I’m away at college and you two are still here—that we could share.” Cautiously, as though he were trying not to spook a horse, Derek pulls back to remove his jacket, keeping his eyes on Stiles the whole time.

Scott keeps his hands on Stiles’ face and in his hair while it’s happening, smiling. “Derek really wants to date you, but we both agree that the long distance thing is too much for a new relationship, so I offered to keep you company until you graduate.” Stiles feels like he’s about ready to hyperventilate as Derek pulls off his shirt and undoes his belt, snaking it out of the loops and tossing it across the room before moving back to cage him in.

Scott takes that as his cue to start undressing, leaving Derek to keep him from succumbing to the sheer insanity of this situation. “Scott told me you were still kind of doing the casual thing, so I didn’t want to pressure you into anything, but I just couldn’t wait.” As if to exemplify this, Derek pulls their hips together and lets Stiles feel just how eager he is to get Stiles on the same page and writhing in this bed. Scott crawls on to the mattresses to the side of him, walking on his knees to come up behind Stiles, oversized, tented boxers the only thing clinging to his hips.

Scott gets his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt and drags them up to tickle at his ribs, gentle but probing. “For a couple of years Derek and I were going through puberty together.” Scott’s voice drops at this, perhaps sensing the illicitness of the moment and responding without thought. “Sometimes we rubbed one out together just like you and I did. We shared a room together, remember?” Stiles nods jerkily and tries to swallow, though it gets stuck in his throat. “I’d see his hands moving under the sheets and it got me going too and before we knew it we were sitting in front of each other on the bed, my legs pulled over his, asses and balls touching, watching each other as we jerked off and came on each other’s skin.”

Stiles feels himself grow painfully hard and he wonders silently if he’s a bad person for getting off on this, if maybe he has so many twisted kinks because he’s a twisted person. Derek notices him stirring and his hands fly to Stiles’ jeans, hand deftly undoing the button and dragging at the zipper. Even quieter than Scott and with a hint of guilt, he murmurs as he moves. “We never touched each other—not _there._ I’d scratch at his stomach and he’d play with my nipples and our thighs were always crossed like that so we were almost in each other’s laps, but we didn’t—I didn’t… molest him.”

Stiles finally realizes that he’s been silent all this time, that he hasn’t reciprocated a thing. He knows what that could imply, knows that he could move away and stop this all and pretend it never happened, that he never came to know these things… but he stays. He stays and he reaches a hand out to thumb at Derek’s cheek bone while leaning back against Scott’s chest. “I could never believe something like that about you.” The words stick to his throat and come out hoarse, but he managed to get them out and Derek looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, almost astonished.

Scott kisses him sweetly behind his ear and takes off his shirt, hands coming back to rub encouragingly at his chest. “We don’t love each other—I mean we do, but just like brothers.” His hands wander down to Stiles’ stomach, fingertips playing with his happy trail. “It’s like you and me—we goof around and fight and have fun and sometimes…” Scott drifts off and with the way Derek’s gaze snaps off around his shoulder, Stiles knows they’re catching each other’s eyes.

“…sometimes we fuck,” Derek finishes for him, darting forward to give Scott a kiss that’s slightly more than brotherly. When Derek pulls back, he looks nervously at Stiles, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “And… I’m okay with sometimes sharing your body—I get that you’re young and not ready to settle down yet—but… I don’t want to share your love. Not—not as a boyfriend.” Derek looks horribly embarrassed at having those words come out of his mouth, face scrunching up like he’s just eaten a lemon, but not backing down in the slightest.

Stiles takes a long, shuddering breath, trying his college best to coalesce all this new information with the world he thought he knew. It’s a lot to throw on a person—a whole fuck of a lot more than finding out three of your teammates are gay or bi or just curious or something… and that you’ve got a big dick. Honestly, he thought that was gonna be the biggest bombshell of his life, but this? He has to twist his neck uncomfortably to look from one brother to another—Derek looking like he’s waiting for the world to come crashing down and the police to haul him away, and Scott nervous and hopeful and slightly constipated like usual—but he gets what he needs from it.

Stiles lets out one last, unhurried breath, before shaking his whole body, as though to compensate the realignment of his life view. With greatly martialed sincerity and gravity he leans back to kiss Scott full on the mouth, wet and lingering, one hand curling around the back of his neck to pull him forward, while his other hand reached out and pulled Derek closer by the waist of his jeans, their chests bumping. When he opens his eyes again, the both of them are looking at him with a kind of reverence and he smiles softly back. “I’m not gonna lie, this scares the shit out of me, but I love you both—in different ways—“ he looks pointedly to Derek at this, hoping his gaze looks as hot as his chest feels, “—and I think I’d like to see where it leads.”

Seeming to be all the confirmation he needs, Scott immediately plasters himself to Stiles’ back, grinding his crooked erection into the still-doughy meat of Stiles’ love handles (seeming to follow his admission of being a late bloomer, the squirrely cheeks, slightly rounded belly, and jiggly sides accompanied by baby fat has yet to give way to the sleek young adulthood that the rest of Stiles’ friends had), and mouthing wetly at the notch at the top of his spine. Derek is slower, gentler with him, not spurred by that same, overwhelming teenage lust, but a tender, simmering burn of a different variety.

Stiles immediately sets to moaning around Derek viciously sucking on his tongue while his large, large hands push Stiles’ jeans down and pull at the backs of his thighs. Scott rises up behind him, nipping at his shoulders and bringing his hands round front to cup at both impressive bulges, hands filthily pinching at his brother and best friend. Stiles’ thighs quake and he tries his best not to cream his shorts right there, especially when Derek grinds into the touch, mashing the three of them together in the most delicious of ways.

Knowing that this first time around isn’t going to last long, but still wanting to make the best of it, Stiles begrudgingly disentangles himself from the both of them, turning to shove at Scott’s chest and back him up the bed, before tossing off his soiled underwear and crawling after him. He hears Derek groan behind him and playfully wiggles his hips a great deal more than necessary as he stalks up the bed. “Why am I even the only one naked?” He grouses as he roughly pulls Scott’s boxers down to his knees, humming appreciatively at the thick, flushed dick that lolls in front of him. “Are you coming?” Stiles demurely throws over his shoulder, full-body shiver wracking his frame when he sees Derek opening his fly to reveal he was free-balling—and that he cares even less about manscaping than Scott.

Stiles can’t help the utterly _ridiculous_ sound that comes out of his mouth, but he doesn’t even feel ashamed. Derek is big—big and dripping. His cock sticks straight out into the air, not even a hint of a curve to it, stabbing out at a perpendicular angle with his abs. The skin is dark and completely smooth where it stretches past the shaft and almost completely engulfs the head—only a pinpoint of the leaking slit and engorged flesh peeking out. Stiles bets when it’s flaccid there’s an overhang of it and he desperately wants to tug at it with his teeth, burrow down into the musky folds with his tongue, and stretch it with his fingers to see if they can’t dock.

Derek chuckles, all-knowing arrogance, as he shucks them off and follows onto the bed, tube socks still pulled all the way up his shins. It bobs as he moves, parting the dense, voluminous black bush that frames its base. Derek’s balls should be lost in the jungly mess, but they hang obscenely low and heavy, looking as though they’d burst like overripe fruit. Stiles’ mouth waters and his ass clenches and his dick twitches and he just wants to roll on his back, expose his belly and throat, and paying fucking _worship_ to whomever fathered this ridiculously grotesque display of masculinity. Stiles wants to bury himself between those legs and never come out. He wants to get beneath Derek after he’s just come home from the gym in the morning—sweaty and ripe and unshowered for more than twenty-four hours—and let himself suffocate.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been saying it all aloud until Derek’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline and his mouth opens in a soft ‘o’ and his dick fucking _squirts_ a line of precome that splashes against the back of Stiles’ calf. Scott coughs awkwardly and when Stiles turns his head back to look at him, he’s wrinkling his nose and softly mutters, “Gross, Stiles.”

Stiles licks his lips and tries to gather himself, clearing his throat and straightening up to sit on his haunches and lamely retort, “You’re gross.” Derek breathlessly chuckles behind him and Scott rolls his eyes, but Stiles feels embarrassed now and so he continues on. “You’re the one who was all frisky after we had chili dogs at the fair the other day and couldn’t stop farting while you fucked me.” Scott turns the most brilliant shade of red and his dick twitches at the memory even as his face scrunches up.

“That was not the same thing and you know it.” He crosses his arms over his chest as his mouth flaps open and closed, looking for a decent response. “That totally wasn’t on purpose—you know onions don’t agree with me.” Derek’s doubled over behind them, wiping tears from his eyes even as he keeps his laughter silent and Stiles preens at both their reactions. Scott wriggles around uncomfortably and refuses to meet his eyes. “Besides, you’re the one who still thinks it’s funny to dutch oven me and then make me suck your dick while I’m under there…” He pauses and it looks like it takes everything in him to finish the sentence, “… if any wires got crossed it’s totally your fault.”

“Awww, Scotty!” Stiles tries his best to mollify him without being condescending. It’s hard work. “It’s okay to be a little kinky. Farting’s not even a big deal! I mean, you’re already fucking your brother.” He hopes the topic isn’t too sensitive, or that it isn’t too soon, but just in case, he decides to cover his tracks by just going for it and swallowing Scott down all in one go. The other boy instantly, violently curls around him, like he just got punched in the stomach, making a pained noise to match.

Behind him he hears Derek suck in a sharp breath and thinking he knows why, Stiles exerts all the knowledge he’s come by with Isaac’s guidance and works to make his rectum wink. He knows he made the right choice when, after a little jostling of the mattress and rustling of fabric, Derek is behind him, roughly pulling apart his ass cheeks and rubbing his erection right behind Stiles’ balls.

Stiles hum happily, gleefully even, hoping he’s about to be spit-roasted, and thinking this can’t possibly get better. Scott’s hands are gripping his hair tight enough to sting, his whole body twitching with the effort not to fuck his mouth, while Derek is lazily taking his time rutting against Stiles’ perineum, his meaty balls just tapping against the back of Stiles’ thighs. Stiles pulls off Scott to nuzzle in his pubes momentarily, before roaming up, scraping his teeth against the suggestion of abs that are startling to show through, using one hand to stroke him so he doesn’t feel abandoned, while the other scratches just under his ribs.

Derek grabs him by the thighs and carefully spreads his legs, folding himself over Stiles’ back to suck bruises into his shoulder blades. Stiles arches into the heavy, corded weight of him and sighs happily against Scott’s skin, lurching forward to bite at one of his nipples before noisily suckling. The three of them are starting to sweat and pant in an erratic, chaotic dis-rhythm, but this isn’t gonna work for Stiles, having only pieces of them at a time, so before they can work beyond the pull- back point, he straightens up, removing himself from their heated shelter.

Before they can question or complain, he rolls onto his back and scoots and wriggles until his head is between Scott’s thighs and Derek is having to hold him in his lap—position eerily similar to a wheelbarrow race. Derek immediately and sharply curses and Stiles has to lever himself up on his elbows to better see why. Derek’s eyes are glued to his heavy cock where it’s jumping up and then tackily smacking back down against his belly, making terrible noises. “ _Jesus,_ Stiles. When did—?”

Stiles feels the absolute best kind of pride ignite in his chest and he quirks an eyebrow, his voice all fake innocence. “When did I what, Derek?” Now that they’re head-to-head (literally!) Stiles can see that he is actually bigger than Derek, if only by the approximate length of the pad of his thumb. The older boy’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head and Stiles thrust his hips towards him, eating up every second. “See something you like?”

Derek doesn’t even bother to answer, just wraps his hands around it and starts to fucking _massage_ the entire length, twisting his wrists and flexing his fingers, like he’s wringing out a dish cloth. Stiles groans and bucks up into the rough, dry sensation, planting his hands on Scott’s thighs to hold on for dear life. When his head bows back, Scott’s dick slaps harshly in his face and Stiles hungrily opens his mouth, uncoordinatedly trying to fish at it, like bobbing for apples.

Scott finally takes pity on him, one hand coming round to hold his jaw still, while the other guides his dick to Stiles’ lips, bending it against its curve to make it fit. Stiles groans around it and really has no choice in this position but to take it in his throat, saliva leaking everywhere and making an absolute mess of his face. Derek’s started fucking lazily into the cleft of his ass, much like Scott did the first time while they were together, and now his hands have started to slip on the precome that Stiles has been leaking steadily, gathering spit in his mouth and then letting it drip from his lips onto the shaft when it isn’t enough.

Stiles bows his back and moves his hands to Scott’s ass, pulling at the cheeks and digging in the crack desperately. Scott is whining high in his throat above him while Derek is nearly silent—only breathing heavily and occasionally grunting in exertion—though the squelching sounds his hands are making are the lewdest things Stiles has ever heard. He pulls them away for a moment, and Stiles is about to pull off Scott just to complain, but then fingers are at his hole, working it greedily open, and Stiles suspects the other ones are pulling back Derek’s foreskin and slicking up his shaft.

Stiles knows it won’t take long, having stretched himself just yesterday around a dildo, and he eagerly pushes down against Derek’s fingers, loving that the other boy is taking his cue and rushing forward—letting Stiles decide that he’s ready and that he likes it a little rough. Honestly, Stiles doesn’t know how long they’ve been shut up in here, but it feels like too long and too short all at once until he’s finally being speared at both ends—cleaved open and _used._

He revels in it, making long, low noises to show his appreciation as he undulates between them and takes them both deeper—his hands pulling Scott forward while his ankles lock behind Derek to do much the same. Their breaths are stuttering and Scott is making noises like a wounded animal while Derek is dripping sweat from his face onto Stiles’ torso. Shaking, feeling like he’s going to implode any second—just be sucked into a pinpoint vacuum, crushed—Stiles lifts his hands and uses one to pull at the back of Scott’s neck while he furiously smacks at Derek’s sternum with the other.

It takes them a moment to get it, both their rhythms breaking with confusion, but once they do, they start back up again, harder and faster and Stiles practically gags with pleasure as they both lean forward, placing their hands on the bed to keep balance, caging him completely in around them, and kiss. It escalates from a shaky meeting of their lips to filthy tongue fucking in the space of a few seconds and as they all get closer and closer it devolves into the two of them breathing hotly into each other’s mouths. Scott is the one to blow first, entire body seizing up as he chokes and makes sounds like he got shot, thrusting far enough down Stiles’ throat to make his eyes water, as he starts to come. Stiles can’t swallow it all properly, contortioned so strangely, and coughs half the semen up as Scott pulls out, spilling it across his chin and cheeks and in his eyes and hair.

Scott’s wet, soft cock still rests on his cheek and once he gets his breath back, he turns his head to kiss it. Derek’s hands frantically scour the mattress for his and he leans further over Stiles, heading pushing Scott away by his chest, and he locks eyes with Stiles as their fingers weave together. There’s an intensity there that Stiles has never seen and Derek calls his name as he grinds as deep into him as he can and comes. Stiles moans—hoarse—as the hot fluid gushes inside him and arches as he lets himself go too, burying his face in the inside of Scott’s thighs, but never letting go of Derek’s hand, even as the aftershocks are over.

Gently, coaxingly, Derek tips his face away from his hiding place after they’ve come down, and with Scott’s limp dick sticking to their cheeks, they kiss. It’s not like any of the kisses Stiles has ever had and he finds himself crying into it, even as he feels so elated. Derek holds him and holds him and never lets their lips part. At some point they maneuver onto their sides—with Scott curled round his back and Derek tucking him into his chest.

Stiles sleeps and doesn’t dream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know it's insane, but I figured I might as well make this into a trilogy? If you want to see an epilogue a couple years in the future with Scisaac, Sterek in a committed relationship, and Jackson joining their bed for an angry three-way, lemme know? ":P
> 
> *Come prompt me more filthy things at my tumblr! [dream-tempo](http://www.dream-tempo.tumblr.com)*

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on how the comments go, I may or may not be open to a Sterek-y sequel.... and/or semi-incestuous threesomes. Soooo..... lemme know. 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s1223.photobucket.com/user/Dream_Tempo/media/Bingo2_zps0806bcc4.jpg.html)  
> 


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